Revelation
by SlimReaper
Summary: Same world as After the Fall, Mirrors and Shadows, etc. Loki introspection happening around the time of the chapter "Restless" in AtF, gets a little bit hot at the end because you should know by now that I cannot resist that kind of thing. Just something I wrote to get it out of my head. Loki/OC


Loki sighed with a mixture of relief, frustration, and exhaustion the moment his door closed behind him. His suite of rooms in the royal wing lay before him, five opulent, spacious, exquisitely beautiful rooms filled with every luxury he could ever wish for and scattered with treasures he'd gathered himself–some he'd found by chance, some he'd sought over centuries, some he'd even bled for. This was his haven in Asgard, the one place solely _his_ in this realm ruled by his father.

And as he gazed around the grand receiving room, he could not ignore how empty it was.

He sighed again and stepped away from the door. It wasn't as though he'd been forced to come back alone. Any one of the dozens of Æsir maidens at Thor's celebration would have happily accompanied him–after all, even though Thor was First Prince and Odin's heir, golden, perfect, the very image of an Æsir warrior, Loki knew his own appeal. After all, he was Second Prince, Silvertongue, the Seducer of Asgard. One title he'd been born into, two he'd earned.

Yet tonight he'd been utterly unmoved by Thor's beautiful guests who'd flirted and teased him. He knew what they wanted–the Second Prince on their arm, a coveted royal prize to flaunt. The Silvertongue to flatter them and whisper temptation in their ears, words that would shiver excitement through their bodies and send moisture gathering between their thighs. The Seducer in their bed, pleasuring them with his legendary skill, satisfying them beyond compare–a conquest to savor and brag about once he left, because he always left.

His lips twisted at that thought of those names. He had others, ones less worthy of admiration and feminine attention. Seiðmaðr. Trickster. Breaker of Worlds. Liesmith. More, ill-omened kennings murmured behind his back, names that drew no desire, no lustful glances. If the women at Thor's gathering had known them, they would undoubtedly have been less eager to shower him with their attention.

And while that had never stopped him before–after all, one did not achieve the kenning of the Seducer of Asgard by celibacy–tonight Loki had not been able to get a different woman out of his mind. One who would never attend one of Thor's parties, because she could never come to Asgard. One who would not giggle and flutter her lashes and try to command his attention with subtle touches of his arm or seemingly accidental brushes against him, because she was much too straightforward for such tricks. One who would likely never see the inside of these lavish chambers.

One who knew all his kennings and thought neither more nor less of him for them.

"Oh, I am a fool," Loki whispered, sinking down onto a chair before the fireplace, barely even seeing the dancing flames within. "Such a fool."

Because the woman he couldn't get out of his mind, the woman who captivated him, fascinated him, made him ache…

… was a mortal.

Loki rubbed his hands over his face, feeling each beat of his heart as it pounded out a painful revelation within him. "Fool," he breathed again. Eyes tightly closed, heart pounding, he finally faced the truth he'd been denying for months. "I love her," he whispered, and saying it aloud sent a shudder down his spine. "_Why_ must I love her?"

Taryn's image rose in his mind and Loki examined it, trying to dispassionately, methodically analyze her appeal just as he'd examine any other puzzle he needed to solve. She was of average height for a mortal, but still a head shorter than him. In contrast, most Æsir women would tower over her. Loki had never cared much for bending too far down to kiss a woman–but oh, just the thought of kissing her made him catch his breath, height difference or not, so he abruptly cut off that train of thought. Thick red hair curled down her back, a lush fall of vibrant color–uncommon in Asgard, that vivid red, but even so, Loki had never gravitated toward redheads above others. Eyes the color of whiskey, a golden brown nearly unheard of on Asgard, and her eyes did indeed fascinate him but not because of their unique color. No, it was the intelligence shining in those eyes, the humor and mischief, the spark and energy reflected in their depths.

And that was the key, Loki realized with a sinking heart. Yes, she was a beautiful mortal–although even the most beautiful mortal paled in comparison to the most average Æsir–but her looks weren't what had captured him so. No, it was her mind, her quick wit, her utterly uninhibited, contagious laugh and the way she smiled and hugged him when he visited her. Her acceptance. Her undemanding, genuine friendship.

Friendship for him. Loki. No titles, no kennings, no prize to be flaunted. Just Loki.

And where every enticement all the women in Asgard had thrown his way had failed to capture him, Loki had been utterly incapable of resisting that one simple thing. Defenseless against it, he'd fallen headlong in love with her and never even seen it coming.

But she was a _mortal._ Loki nearly groaned aloud with the pain of that. He'd already passed dozens of human lifetimes before Taryn had even been born, and he would live many more after she was gone. She was a brief flare in his immortal existence, a shooting star in the vastness of space. Even if he did win her love, he could only have her for such a short time. He would lose her too soon, be forced to watch her age, her spark flickering, fading, and finally extinguished by death.

Just the thought of it squeezed his chest in a vice of agony. He didn't even have the comfort of knowing he could visit her in his daughter's realm of Helheimr, either. She didn't follow the old ways. Her soul would go to a different realm, an afterlife he could not find.

This train of thought was too painful. Loki let it go, reached for a new one, found only one that mattered right now. Should he risk his heart and her rejection and try to change her feelings for him from friendship to love? He took a deep breath and stared hard into the flames as though the answers were hidden in their flickering depths. For the first time in his life, he had no assurance that he would even succeed in his seduction–she was so different from any woman he'd ever known–but the very challenge of it was alluring. Still, even if he did win her heart, would the joy of having her be enough to offset the pain of losing her after only a handful of years? Wouldn't it hurt more to lose her if he'd loved her fully than if he kept his distance, maintained their relationship as it was?

Logically, it seemed best to spare himself future suffering by completely severing all contact with her now. He could keep his memories of her as she was now, young and vibrant, never marring those memories by watching her age and deteriorate.

… but as he came to that conclusion, something deep inside him rebelled. No. No, he wouldn't, couldn't do that. He could keep some distance without cutting her from his life completely. Somehow he would find a way because the thought of never seeing her again was intolerable.

His mind didn't want to stay on this topic, either. In fact, all it wanted to do was to refocus on that brief, too-tempting thought of kissing her.

Loki groaned, imagining it. What would she taste like, he wondered? Would she melt against him and plunge her hands into his hair, demanding more? Would she quietly submit to his kiss or kiss him back with equal passion? Would she press herself against him, offer him all those lush curves to explore, and would she touch him in return, run those slender hands over his body? Would she brazenly lead him to her bed or would she let him sweep her off her feet, carry her there like a conquering hero with his prize?

And oh, he was on fire now, hard and aching, his mind full of dreams of her passion, the sounds he would draw from her, how she would moan his name, cry out with pleasure, all the while begging him for more, urging him on until he sank deep inside her, hot and slick and perfect, riding her hard and fast, then slow and achingly tender, loving her until neither of them could walk, making her come over and over again until she would never want anyone else, could never look at another man without knowing that he would never measure up to Loki, until she loved him with the same unreasoning passion that yielded nothing to logic…

Unable to stop the vivid fantasy–or was it unwilling?–he leaned back in the chair and unfastened his pants, imagining it was Taryn's hands on the laces. Taryn's fingers wrapping around his stiff cock, caressing, sliding up and down, and now he imagined her kiss again–sweet, soft tongue, full lips, slick teeth–and in his mind, she trailed kisses down his throat, over his chest, tonguing his nipples before nibbling her way across his abs, and her hand never slowed on his cock, his hips moving now no matter how hard he tried to still them, rocking in time with that maddeningly slow up-and-down caress.

And then he imagined that mouth going lower, lower still, finally sliding down over the head of his cock–so soft, so wet, fluttering tongue teasing around the rim, then hard suction that made his back arch and his balls tighten–imagined her hands clutching his back, nails digging in, moaning as she sucked him deep, and now a moan escaped him too, impossible to hold back, and in his mind he pulled her away from her too-wonderful ministrations and onto his lap, thrust inside that sweet heat between her thighs. Stroking faster now, breathing hard, imagining the pleasure on her face, white teeth biting her plump lower lip, and oh how her tight inner walls would squeeze him still tighter as her climax peaked, so good, so right, so _perfect_–

His own orgasm hit then, erasing all thought in the white-hot burst of ecstasy. He gasped and moaned, hand never stilling, until the last tremor was spent and he collapsed back in the chair, breathing as though he'd just vanquished a mighty foe single-handedly.

It took several minutes before Loki was able to collect himself enough to magic away the evidence of what he'd done and refasten his pants. The shock was harder to banish, however. By the Tree, he hadn't pleasured himself for hundreds of years–there had been no need of it, as there were always women eager to please him whenever he felt the urge. But he no longer wanted any of them. The very idea of allowing someone else to touch him was repellent. It felt like a betrayal even though Taryn had never shown the slightest bit of jealousy or possessiveness toward him… and yes, now he would even admit that he _wanted_ her to do so.

He covered his face once more with one shaking hand, knowing that this would happen again, because until he truly had her, no other's touch would move him.

"I am mad," he whispered, still trembling from the force of his orgasm and the realization that he actually _wanted_ to be faithful to a woman who didn't even know of his feelings and had never even asked for such a thing from him, a woman he hadn't even decided if he would pursue–him, Loki the Seducer, faithful! Who would ever have thought him capable of it? "I am utterly mad."

But mad or not, foolish or not, Loki loved Taryn Roswell, the mortal woman who made him feel so much, far more than he'd ever imagined he could.

And he still had no idea what to do about it.


End file.
